PROLOGUE
EAMON
One of the biggest misconceptions people have about guardian angels is that we’re all…angels. As in perfect angelic beings, all white and pure and radiating love or some shite. But that’s not even close to the truth, now is it?
I’m about as opposite to pure as you can imagine. Filthy, and that’s the truth of it.
Filthy mouth.
Filthy thoughts.
And lots and lots of filthy sex.
Look, I’ve lived a long time. I was born in a tiny village in Ireland before the Industrial Revolution, when poverty and famine ruled the land. We had no electricity, no plumbing, no nothing. Everything was powered by either humans or animals. Da—bless his soul—worked our land with his bare hands and, on occasion, an ox he borrowed from our neighbors, who were one good harvest wealthier than we were.
And Ma did laundry for everyone who could afford it, her hands cracked and raw from being in the water so much. In the little free time she had, she tended to ourgarden. A gift she had for gardening, my ma. She could make anything bloom.
I was destined to be what my parents were, what my two older brothers would become. A farmer. A simple life in a tiny village in rural Ireland. And I liked it. Aye, I did. I didn’t know anything else, but I was content.
Well, mostly. I never found a girl to settle down with. Never wanted one. Even back then, in a time when such things were unthinkable, I’d known my body and soul wanted the hardness and toughness of another man, not the soft curves of a woman. So I’d stayed single, ignoring the gossip that caused in our village. Over time, people came to accept it.
I would have lived that life until the day I died, which I’d imagined to be the ripe old age of sixty if I was lucky, but alas, that day came sooner than expected. When Murphy Concannon’s horses spooked and took off, heading straight for some children, I needed to stop them. And I did, though I lost my life in the process.
I died a thirty-six-year-old man and woke up with a choice. El said he had a use for me, and I could choose between that and surrendering my soul to whatever my eternal destination would be. As I wasn’t too sure I’d gain entry into heaven, what with me lying with men and all, I accepted.
Over three hundred years I’ve walked this Earth now, and I’ve seen it all. The first cars, planes, and space rockets. Modern conveniences like a phone, a fridge, a washing machine—in my humble opinion, the grandest invention, by the way. I’d seen my ma and other women break their backs doing laundry.
So yes, I’ve lived through it all…and it’s changed me. You try being on the damn planet for three hundred years and see how pure you still are. After about twenty years or so, I gave up on even trying.
It’s not like El cares. Ah, El’s more into…the broader picture, if you will. You know, murder and sexual violence and that sort of thing. They don’t mind a little white lie—“Oh darling, that dress suits you grand!”—and the rumors about coveting your neighbor’s wife and all that are severely exaggerated. As long as you don’t act on it, a little coveting never hurt anyone, now does it?
Though in my case, it’s not so much my neighbor’s wife I’d be coveting, but my neighbor’s husband or boyfriend or son or brother or whatever. That whole El being against gay people? All lies. El has no gender, so why would they care who you love?
And they created sex, so kinda hard to be against that—pun intended. Yeah, I know. For a three-hundred-and-twenty-two-year-old, my puns are rather lacking. I’m aware. Luckily, I make up for it with my sunny disposition and sparkling personality.
Not.
Excuse me while I throw up a little. I swear to El that if they’d made me guard Oprah or Norman Vincent Peale or what’s-his-name, Deepak something-or-other, I would’ve had to permanently tape my mouth shut to prevent me from saying something.
I don’t do positive thinking, okay? In fact, I try to do as little thinking as possible, and most of it is definitely not positive. I’m more of a…realist, one could say. I deal with realities, not wishful thinking. And the reality is that bad shit is going to happen, no matter how much I wish it didn’t. You can’t positive-think your way out of everything.
Take Charles Garrity, for example. I’ve been observing him for the last four days, and I don’t think I’ve ever met amore bubbly, happy, positive lad. And he’s cute as anything too, with a round, plump arse that…
Never mind. Getting off track here. Anyway, my point is that he’s about as positive as they come, yet he’s about to deal with some seriously bad stuff.
Which is where I come in.
You can call me…Charles’s Angel.
(See what I did there?)
ONE
CHARLES
I loved my life.
Well, aside from the fact that at thirty-two, I was still single, but other than that, it was perfect. And so was the wedding cake I had just finished. I took a step back and breathed out. When my client, Gia, had asked for an Italian-themed cake, I knew I’d be able to let my creativity fly.
